GQ's Ireland (1962)

GQ Magazine, April 1962

While GQ seemed to be the smaller and more intellectually challenged little brother of Esquire, and I've waded thru years and years of both….GQ, for a time, stood on firm turf in the early to mid '60s... both visually and in the writing.  This April issue celebrated Ireland and it has a moody and dark attitude.  I love it.

An GQ is not easy to find and this came from a bound volume so scanning was a challenge.  However, inspirational ideas, fashion jargon for 'stealing,' are everywhere despite the binding.  Not only in unique layout, photography and stories but in the apparel itself.  The nubby stripe shirt reminds me of nubby silk Rooster tie stripes -- A mitre madras shirt reminds me of…nothing. It's unlike anything I've ever seen and I'd kill to have one today.  A rain coat with hacking pockets and sleeve turn ups?  I'd buy that.  I'm even saving up for a Jill Gill - - the NYC artist of all those beautiful whiskeys.

I know fashion designers dig thru these old mags but do fashion editors?  I'm guessing most do not.  And for the very first time, during NY Fashion Week, my hunch was confirmed from widely divergent sources regarding what we'll call,  "Fashion editor illiteracy."   "He didn't know shawl from peak."  "Zip knowledge of apparel history."  "I had to explain canvas construction." "All he liked was black." You get the idea.

I sat in front of Nick Sullivan at Esquire and in a couple minutes he showed me a 1950's Mac hanging on the back of his office door and pointed out the construction suggesting it might even be my size.  We discussed the military influence of clothing and why stealing unit insignia was not only vulgar but unnecessary.  And sure, there was the 24 hour "shoe-cam" which was monitoring what he wore on his feet everyday…but the man was fashion literate.  That much you could not argue.

G. Bruce Boyer bemoaned the GQ of today doing a 20 page spread on jeans and t-shirts.  It's what they know, Bruce.    But I'm guessing there's an archive somewhere in that GQ office and I'd like to suggest it would be a lot more fun to go thru than the PR pitches.

Dinny the Piper

In the year ‘98, when our troubles were great
It was treason to be a Milesian.
And the black-whiskers said we would never forget
And our history shows they were Hessians.
And in these troubled times, it was a great crime
And martyrdom never was riper
Near the town of Glenshee, not an acre from Meath,
Lived one Dinny Burns, the Piper!

Neither weddin’ nor wake would be worth a shake
If Dinny was first not invited.
For at squeezin’ the bag, or emptyin’ the keg,
He astonished as well as delighted!
But in these times Dinny could not earn a penny,
Martial Law had him stung like a viper!
And it kept him within till the bones of his skin
Grinned thru the rags of the piper!

Now one day it did dawn, as Dinny crept home,
Back from a fair at Lethangin,
When what should he see, from the branch of a tree,
But the corpse of a Hessian, there hangin’!
Says Dinny, “These rogues have got boots, I’ve no brogues!”
He took hold of the boots wi’ a griper,
And the boots were so tight, and he pulled with such might,
Legs and all come away with the piper!

Ah, then Dinny did run for fear of bein’ hung
Til he came to Tim Haley’s cabin.
Says Tim from within, “I can’t let ye in!
Ye’ll be shot if you’re caught out there rappin’!”
So he went to the she’d where the cow was in bed,
He began with a whisper to wipe her,
And they lay down together, in seven foot of heather,
And the cow took to huggin’ the piper!

Well the day it wore on, and Dinny did yawn,
And he stripped off the boots from the Hessian!
And the legs, for the law, he just left in the straw,
And he slipped home with his new possessions!
Now breakfast bein’ done, Tim sent his young son
To get Dinny up like a lamplighter,
And the legs there he saw; he flew up like a jackdaw!
And said “Daddy, the cow’s et the piper!”

Ah, bad luck to that beast, she’s no musical taste!
To eat such a jolly old chanter!
Ah, faugh! We’ll evict! Take a lump of a stick!
Drive her off, down the road and we’ll canter!
Well the neighbors were called, Mrs. Kennedy bawled,
She began for to humbug and jiper,
And in sorrow they met, and their whistles they wet,
And like devils, lamented the piper!

And the cow she was drove a mile or two off,
And they came to a fair at Killaley.
And there she was sold for four guineas of gold
To the clerk of the parish, John Daley.
And they went to the tent where the pennies were spent,
Tim bein’ a jolly old swiper,
And who should be there, playin’ the Rakes of Killdare,
Just your bold Dinny Burns, the piper!

Ah, then Tim give a jolt like a half-drunken colt,
And he stares at the piper like a gammick!
I thought, by the Powers, for the last sev’ral hours,
You were playin’ in the old cow’s stomach!
Well when Dinny observed that the Hessian’s been served
Began just to humbug and jiper,
Oh, in grandeur they met, and their whistles they wet,
And like devils they danced round the piper!

Manus Lunny & Andy Stewart, 1987
from, Dublin Lady

Thousands Are Sailing

The Pogues

All photos taken on Ellis & Liberty Islands, 1984-1985

Happy St Patrick's Day

Come Away...

Stolen Child by William Butler Yeats (1889)

WHERE dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.

Grace...

TERRY
So I was in Boston. I just ended up there. Seemed far enough away. They come to me then, it just happened, you know how that is, things happen and other things happen and its your life.

They were looking to get somebody to go undercover here, they wanted to get somebody who knew the kitchen, who was known. I could'a said no but I thought I could do it. It was like this opportunity in which I could look the entire thing in the eye. You'd be gone, or married, forgotten about me I thought. And Jack, I would leave him out of it.

But it was only an idea. Nothing to do with the truth. It was just a fuckin' idea like... You believe in the angels or the saints or there's such a thing as a state of grace. And you believe it, but it's got nothing to do with reality. It just an idea.

I mean you got your ideas and you got reality, and they're all... they're all fucked up.